Prophecy
by grannysknitting
Summary: all good things must come to an end. Sherlock has never heard that truism, but if he had, he'd probably disagree most strenuously. A prophecy has been made and those things never end well. Magic!John verse and the last story in this series. Rating cos I'm paranoid.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer – characters and setting as depicted in the BBC series not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.

AN – so now that the boys on Sherlock BBC have definitively named Lestrade 'Greg' (ACD only ever gave a first initial of G to DI Lestrade, so I chose Geoffrey instead), Lestrade's name is technically wrong in all my fics. I can either – go back and re-edit them all (NOT), or grit my teeth and put up with it (I choose that one). If you can't live with the dissonance… have a couple of glasses of something alcoholic. Eventually you'll see it my way. (lol)

Warning – final in the Magic!John series. Don't panic. Stay calm and believe in Sherlock.

**Prophecy**

Sherlock clipped down the stairs of the crime scene, tossing deductions over his shoulder as he went. A glance in the glass of the storefront opposite showed that Lestrade was following along behind, his hands in his pockets.

"… and shouldn't you be writing this down?" Sherlock tossed the last comment over his shoulder and turned to be met with a world weary grin.

"I don't think I should be wielding pointy objects in your presence at the moment, Sherlock," Lestrade replied, his tone indicating exasperation and amusement in almost equal parts. Sherlock flashed a bright grin at the DI, delighted. Geoff was _teasing_ him in a Good way – something that had never happened Before John. After John it was a more common occurrence, yet another example of the benefits of having John in his life.

Before he could respond with an equally teasing remark their phones chimed with what Sherlock had mentally come to call 'John's sound'. Sherlock had, back in the days that they were only flatmates, programmed his phone to use a particular sound when John texted or called. He'd hacked into Lestrade's phone a few months ago and programmed it with the same sound as well as a code that would alert him if the DI tried to change it. So far, he hadn't.

They pulled their phones out, Geoff frowning already, and opened the message. It was a single word, but one that galvanised them to instant movement.

'Hide'

Instinct told him that this wasn't a message from John, per se, but the Mage of London. His lover should have been working at his ER this morning, not sending them cryptic texts, but Sherlock trusted John completely and without thinking twice about it he turned and walked away from the promising crime scene, its details already fading from his mind. Geoff was at his shoulder and to the casual observer it would have seemed that they were merely walking the perimeter of the scene, looking for something.

It was a moment's work to step into the shadows of the next building and cut through the alley, heading for the nearest public building or transport platform they could find.

John had once told both men that public buildings such as libraries, train stations, court houses, hospitals and to a lesser extent shopping malls were warded in such a way as to be neutral ground to the magic world. The more official the public building the better, which was why malls didn't work too well, but if a practitioner was seeking to meet on neutral ground a public building was almost always chosen. John had cautioned against choosing museums as it was likely that artefacts useful in the practice of magic would be present and had warned that art galleries were often 'grey areas' when it came to being in the public domain.

The Underground was only a block away and both men headed for it at a steady pace, neither hurrying or dallying. Sherlock was working his phone, trying to pull the reason for the Mage of London to send them into hiding from the ether. They passed through the ticket barriers without challenge and Lestrade pushed Sherlock into a carriage and onto a seat before sitting beside him, hemming him neatly into a corner. It was a sound strategy – Sherlock knew he'd be off and out of the train at the slightest provocation, heedless of danger. Lestrade's action was… Good: John would be irate if Sherlock hurt himself.

"Breaking news," Sherlock muttered in complete annoyance, "Come on, that is at least ten minutes ago. What is happening _now?_"

Lestrade had his own phone out, a glance showed he was checking the incident updates from the Yard. Sherlock glared at the page he was refreshing and made a note to complain to Mycroft about the slowness of his news reports.

"There's been some sort of incident at an inner city ER," Geoff said suddenly and Sherlock's heart stuttered for a moment, "No clear details as the initial response is just going in, but there were reports of some sort of explosion and masked men."

John would be furious. He took medicine very seriously and had no time for those that endangered the patients under his care.

"Sherlock, has John said anything about being in danger?" Geoff asked, "Or have you noticed anything?"

"No to both questions," Sherlock scowled, "He's been normal, just John. We're not under any sort of surveillance beyond the usual and he hasn't mentioned any you-know-what troubles. Truth be told we've been avoiding that sort of thing for a while, after my recent stupidity."

Stupidity that had seen Sherlock totally over-react to John disappearing to deal with Moriarty and throwing his lover out. John had gone, much to Mycroft's delight and Sherlock had instantly panicked. In the end, Mycroft had grudgingly fetched John back to Baker Street. John had forgiven Sherlock, but the thin genius was well aware that he had stepped over the boundaries with his behaviour. He'd privately and publicly vowed never to do that again. John had accepted his promise, but had ceased to mention or practice his magic in the flat, which Sherlock saw as an indicator of how badly he'd hurt his lover. He longed for the Mage to return to residence in Baker Street but knew that would not occur until John once more felt wholly accepted. It had been months now and Sherlock was beginning to wonder if he'd ever manage it.

"It turns out that I'm a bit rubbish at reassuring John," Sherlock added awkwardly, knowing that Geoff continued in his once-a-week pint with his lover and the topic may have been discussed.

"I see," Geoff shifted uncomfortably and refreshed his phone, "Damn, it's been upgraded to a r… here."

Sherlock accepted the phone and glanced over it quickly. A riot had apparently broken out at John's ER – something that was not to be announced in public on the Tube. A glance at the map over the door showed that they were on the wrong part of the Circle line to get off and get to John and he frowned.

"We need to get to him," Sherlock announced, "He'll still be there, defending his patients."

"We need to stay where we are," Geoff disagreed and latched his handcuffs over Sherlock's wrist, joining them together with Mage blessed metal, "He told us to get lost, Sherlock. He had his reasons. John will find us when he can."

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	2. Chapter 2

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Geoff was quite pleased when Sherlock stopped talking. Cuffing them together meant that the thin pest couldn't get away, but it also meant that _he_ couldn't either. He had been aware that the fallout from Sherlock's tantrum of last month had still been affecting John – the doctor had been sad behind the banter and discussions they'd held over their weekly pints and the former army surgeon had yet to attend a crime scene with Sherlock. Geoff hadn't pried and John hadn't indicated that he'd wanted to share and they'd both been more than happy to talk about work and football and debate the merits of various films and music.

He was well aware that the man beside him was searching the platform, or as much of it as he could see each time they pulled into a new station. Truth be told, he was looking as well, trying to locate the face of the man that had sent them into hiding with only a word. Such was his trust in John Watson – he would walk away from his duties without second thought after receiving a one word text with no explanation.

At Baker Street, Sherlock leaned forward as if he was going to get up and Lestrade noted that there was a man who bore striking resemblance to their mutual friend on the platform. He gripped Sherlock's wrist tightly and there was a soft growl and then weight across Geoff's lap. Pet had arrived and was apparently sitting on Sherlock as well if the thin mans muttered complaints were any indication.

"Lestraaaade," Sherlock whined but the doors closed and the train moved on without the man who looked like John getting on. Sherlock squirmed and then went a funny colour as Pet growled. The mystery behind _that_ expression was solved when the younger man squeaked, "Claws!"

"Sit still Sherlock, you're attracting attention," Geoff chided softly, letting Pet rest its head on his leg with a grumble of contentment. He hadn't felt any claws, but that didn't mean anything as he wasn't trying to get up against Pets wishes, "Did it not occur to you that John sent Pet to lead us to him?"

Sherlock stilled: a sulky look on his face. Geoff sighed and looked at the tunnel wall flashing past the carriage, which was only half full at this time of day. He had a sudden thought that now he knew what a young – or younger – Sherlock must have looked like when being disciplined by his parents. Sherlock gave him a dismissive sniff when he sniggered and Geoff brought his free hand up to check on his phone once more. The action reminded Sherlock to check his and they spent a few quiet minutes catching up with the available news.

It wasn't good. The riot at the hospital was threatening to spill over into the streets. Geoff checked his personal inbox and discovered several texts from both his team and his supervisor demanding his location. He didn't answer, though the consequences for this would be unpleasant. However, he couldn't see any other course of action at the moment. Sherlock was in his care and if John said to hide, then that was what he would do.

"Sherlock, what about my family?" Geoff muttered as another platform hove into view. Sherlock glanced away from his phone for a moment with a frown.

"If he's sent us into hiding, he's done the same for them, though Mrs Lestrade thinks that the text to gather the children and lock up the house came from you. John has had that system in place for months now, ever since the first time you realised he was … special," Sherlock replied, a hint of reproach in his voice, "He would never endanger your family, Lestrade Surely the security you saw him installing in your front room is proof enough of that?"

Geoff nodded, slightly ashamed. The Mage of London had set fire to his own blood to install protective wards in Geoff's house. Further proof that John would not endanger the mundane people he worked with should not have been needed. In his defence, it was Geoff's _family_ that he was worried about: even with John's protection Geoff knew himself well enough to know that he would not be satisfied as to their safety unless he was present.

They sat in tense silence for three hours. Geoff's phone got so insistent that Sherlock finally advised him to turn it off – all the better to avoid being tracked by the Yard. When Geoff pointed out that the CCTV cameras would have registered them as they entered the Tube he got a pitying look from the curly haired man beside him. Apparently either Sherlock or his influential brother or possibly even John had buggered the security system in their favour. Sherlock's phone was quiet, though the consultant refreshed the news pages every ten minutes or so.

Finally, as they came to Temple, Pet shivered, then stirred and got off Geoff, which was a relief because he'd begun to overheat. It took a firm hold of the hem of his jacket and led the way off the tube. To keep the cuffs discrete, Geoff took hold of Sherlock's hand which so startled the other man he followed along without too great a fuss. Pet led them through to the other platform and pressed them both up against the wall. Sherlock opened his mouth to complain again, but was interrupted when someone dropped their shopping. Apples and oranges went everywhere, distracting the public from the fact that the wall appeared to have simultaneously melted and swallowed a consulting detective and the Detective Inspector that was cuffed to him.

For a brief moment Geoff panicked, then a familiar hand steadied him and a familiar voice spoke in his ear.

"Easy there, you two."

Geoff's wrist was pulled at an awkward angle as Sherlock turned and latched onto the half seen figure, the dim light – apparently coming from a candle floating near John's shoulder – making details difficult to pick up.

"What the hell is going on, John?" Geoff asked and reached for his key as Pet rumbled beside him, "Where are we?"

"Yes, you're very clever," John sounded indulgent and his hand ran over empty air, the action resulting in a satisfied purr, his other arm wrapping around Sherlock.

"We're in the space between the walls," John replied at length, "I've enlarged it temporarily. Once we leave it will go back to its usual dimensions and the structure isn't compromised."

Geoff nodded. Typical of the Mage to hear the questions that weren't asked as well as those that were. He released Sherlock's wrist with a sigh of relief – he'd had to hold onto Sherlock's hand to avoid drawing attention to the cuffs and the genius had fidgeted with his fingers the entire time – before uncuffing himself and putting the metal away.

"You're _hurt_," Sherlock sounded upset, which was understandable, really. Sherlock did not cope well with John being anything other than a hundred percent. Geoff shot John a surprised look, which was waved off.

"A minor cut, that's all," John replied, "Let go, Sherlock. We have to move."

"What the hell is going on?" Geoff asked, not bothering to dispute John's estimation of his injuries right this second. John was a worse patient than Sherlock when it came right down to it, which meant that they would have to keep a close eye on him. Wielding difficult magic always took a lot out of John, to the point where he burned body mass in an effort to sustain his casting, so the sooner John could relax this current spell, the better.

"I'll tell you when we're in a secure position, Geoff," John sighed, "Your family is safe and so is Mrs Hudson, Sherlock. We are _not_ safe though and we need to get moving. Now."

Sherlock let go reluctantly, keeping one hand fisted in John's jacket. Geoff reached out and caught a handful of Sherlock's coat as they moved sideways through the narrow space, unwilling to be separated from his two companions.

The space between the walls was filthy, which made sense when Geoff stopped to think about it. He took especial care not to rub against the surfaces around them, partly because he didn't like the look of it and partly because he didn't know when his next change of clothing would occur. The 'bubble' of space they stood in moved along with them, spreading the walls apart ahead of their slow pace and allowing the walls to spring slowly back into place once they had passed. Geoff wasn't sure if the slow pace was down to the need to preserve the bubble or John's injury but knew better than to ask.

The less they taxed John while he was actively sustaining magic, the quicker they'd get to whatever safe place John had arranged for them. There was a time and a place for conversation and Geoff knew it, no matter what insults Sherlock had spouted over the years. Pet pressed against Geoff's leg at intervals, herding him along with quiet urgency.

They edged along in single file, going not only forward towards the Thames but also down, until the smell of water and sense of damp was right overhead. They had long ago stopped walking between walls, instead sidling between layers of dirt and rock until the front of the bubble apparently burst and John tugged them forward sharply into a cavern of sorts. The candle floated forward and settled on a bench, joined by dozens of others to light the impossible space. It was tiled; though the tiles were so grimy their colours were unrecognisable and had a gutter running down one side.

"There used to be all sorts of tunnels running under the Thames. This is one of the abandoned ones, used originally for pedestrians. We're in a way-station of sorts," John said quietly and settled on a second, candle-free, bench. Geoff looked both ways but was unable to spot any damage or blockage. Whatever had caused the tunnel to fall out of use wasn't immediately visible. It was a sort of creepy feeling, as if the dark was concealing things.

There were books stored here, in metal trunks with modern seals and clasps, as well as what Geoff had come to recognise as 'ingredient chests' where John stored things for his casting and brewing. There was a bundle of blankets and a pile of clothes as well, which indicated that John had spent some time down here, doing who knew what. Sherlock pounced on a first aid box – the modern markings incongruous in the dim light – and turned to his lover with a demanding expression on his face.

"Let me see," he growled. John sighed and parted the front of his coat, revealing the scrubs he wore at work. There was a disquieting blood stain on the right hand side and Sherlock tugged the material up cautiously.

"That's a stab wound, not a cut," Geoff didn't bother to hide his irritation with people who disguised the severity of their injuries. A glance at Sherlock's face showed more emotion than the genius was wont to display under usual circumstances, which was a surprisingly good deterrent where John was concerned. He plucked a candle from its resting place and held it out to give Sherlock better light to work with.

John was silent through the cleaning and application of sterile-strips that held the edges of the wound together. He assisted with the positioning of the dressing and averred that there were no other injuries for Sherlock to fret over, changing into the clothes he'd left behind previously and eventually decoying his partner to the blanket pile, where the two men leaned against each other quietly.

Pet joined Geoff on the now empty bench and he put the candle on the far arm, stroking his hand over Pet's head lightly and fixing John with his best interrogators look. It was rather disheartening to see the Mage grin in response instead of cracking, but then John started speaking and Geoff forgot his disappointment.

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	3. Chapter 3

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John was Hurt and that was Not Acceptable. It made concentrating difficult, but Sherlock forced himself to focus on the words John was saying and not the faint scent of blood. It was clear to him at first glance that this was where John went to practice Magic ever since Sherlock's foolish outburst of temper all those months ago. This fact boded ill for their future – Sherlock had always welcomed John's practice of his craft with eager curiosity: sudden concealment could herald rejection of both Sherlock's place in John's world and in his bed.

"The riot at the hospital was not the result of mundane actions. Or rather it was, but they were manipulated into it by outside forces," John began, his heart beating steadily under Sherlock's palm, "For the last few months there have been stirrings in the magical community of London, prompted by a few practitioners. They… disapprove of my use of Magic in the presence of Mundane's and especially the amount of knowledge I've given you two over the last year or so."

"Is that why you aren't practicing at Baker Street?" Sherlock asked, the question bursting from his lips almost without volition. If John was truly trying to protect him and not reject him…

"Yes," John sighed, "Also, it makes sense to separate magic from our lives at home. It was more convenient to practice at Baker Street, but most practitioners have established a separate space to do so when living with Mundane's. I don't regret telling the both of you, but I do regret letting it touch your lives to the extent it has."

"Hang on," Geoff got in before Sherlock could, "You didn't exactly go around flaunting it in our faces; and let us not forget the times you disappear to deal with things alone rather than dragging us into it."

"What about the times I haven't," John replied, his voice to _tired_ it made Sherlock's throat hurt. John had been trying to stop this by himself for months, afraid to tell Sherlock of the new danger and shatter their fragile peace, "I recall a certain Easter Egg hunt that you certainly shouldn't have been present for, not to mention a little run in with the original Jack the Ripper."

"You keep us from the big stuff, though," Sherlock replied, his throat tight, clinging to the thought that John wasn't rejecting him, just protecting him. Typical John – putting Sherlock and his friend before himself. Sherlock took a deep breath – this was Not Acceptable either. John was far too precious to Sherlock, to every aspect of his life, to be let to feel a burden or a danger. Sherlock's reticence and clumsiness when it came to emotions was coming between them and _it stopped now._

"John, I loved you before the magic, I love you with the magic, I'll love you no matter what, but you _have to let me help_," Sherlock tuned Geoff Lestrade's presence out, locking eyes with his heart. He let John see everything Sherlock routinely hid, the things he had a hard time admitting to, let alone expressing – he stripped his soul naked and let John _see_.

For a long moment, John searched his eyes. Sherlock could actually see the moment his lover let go of the last of his fear and accepted everything that Sherlock was showing him, embracing it gladly. John melted into Sherlock's side, hiding his face in Sherlock's neck and hugging him tightly for a long moment, the tension in his frame slowly bleeding away.

"I've never once regretted knowing more about the world, mate, even when it was weird or uncomfortable," Geoff spoke up from somewhere beyond their sphere of two, "I certainly don't regret knowing you. Now, if we're finished with the girly-girly talk, maybe we can get to work on solving the problem before us."

John laughed; the sound sparking along Sherlock's spine. It was carefree and happy – something John hadn't been for what seemed like a very a long time. They separated, though John retained Sherlock's hand. Sherlock immediately started fidgeting with John's fingers, a comforting action that John allowed without appearing to notice. It was an automatic gesture now, whenever Sherlock held hands he started fidgeting with their fingers… oh, that might explain Lestrade's discomfort earlier on the Tube…

"Ok Geoff, just to please you, we'll concentrate on the problem before us," John sobered quickly, "It's partly political and partly … mystical for lack of a better term. One of the areas of magic you two have never been exposed to through my practice is that of prophecy and foretelling. I don't perform foretelling's myself, partly because many of the common methods for doing so involve some sort of sacrifice, which I find unethical. Prophecies, however, are foretelling's from hundreds of years ago, recorded by practitioners that focussed almost solely on telling the future. These people gain credence with each prophecy that comes true, though usually they're dead by then."

"Isn't that open to interpretation then?" Geoff asked and John nodded, a wry grin twisting his lips.

"Oh hell, yes," he sighed, "Which is where the politics comes in. Even Nostradamus' predictions are open to interpretation. Some were very specific, but the vaguer ones have been twisted in the past to suit the needs of an individual or group. This is happening to us now."

"You mean the three of us in particular?" Sherlock was startled, "When you said there was trouble with a prophecy I just assumed that you meant in general."

Geoff leaned forward, concern on his face and John sighed, scrubbing his free hand through his hair.

"No, I meant the three of us in particular," John sighed, "I won't bother repeating it verbatim – the thing runs to over a thousand words, is in an arcane dialect and it rhymes to boot. If you ignore the flourishes and peccadilloes, the meat of the prophecy is that a Mage will come to the place of the Druids with his mundane servants and destroy the seat of the Empire."

"We're your servants?" Geoff blurted after a short silence, then laughed, "Mate, there is no way…"

"Of course not," Sherlock scoffed, "Didn't John say it was open to interpretation? I assume that the seat of the Empire and the place of Druids is commonly held to be London?"

John nodded, spreading his free hand. Geoff sighed and Pet grumbled, both shifting on their bench, "Actually, that particular prophecy could be applied to any practicing Mage who recruits Mundane's to his cause. Hitler, for example, or William the Conqueror."

"Then the Prophecy is already over," Geoff frowned, following the most simplistic line of logic, much to Sherlock's distaste. He'd tried teaching the man, but Geoff Lestrade was just not an adept when it came to learning logic.

"It's had multiple chances to be used though. William the Conqueror did defeat the current head of England in 1066, but Hitler did not. This specious argument is probably considered valid simply because the prophecy itself can be put to multiple uses. I assume that the Prophecy speaks as to how to defeat this Mage and his mundane army?" Sherlock disputed. How illogical could one community get, really? He was quite pleased that John was made of sterner stuff.

"We're not an army," Geoff side-tracked the argument again and failed to quail under Sherlock's glare. Really, the man was spending too much time with him – Sherlock was constantly having to come up with new ways to keep Lestrade in check all the time.

"The argument goes that I've corrupted your… innocence when it comes to Magic and that you follow my demands because you're frightened of what may happen to London if you don't. Because I've flouted the secrecy policy of the community, as well as committed summary judgement on one element of that community, there is a certain faction that is pushing for my… exile I suppose you could call it," John shrugged. Sherlock sensed that there was more to this exile than simple relocation, but didn't press it for the moment.

"What has this got to do with the riot at your Hospital?" Sherlock asked the question plainly, wanting to get to the heart of the matter quickly.

"It wasn't a true mundane riot," John scowled, "It was Magically driven. Up until now, the faction have been content with just maligning my name and generally being a pest, but it seems that the noise and bluster were a smokescreen for them getting into the Wards of London. They've agitated certain ley lines in such a way as to make clear thought difficult – emotions will run very high unless we can settle the ley lines once more."

"You mean this will spread?" Geoff's voice rose and Pet growled in response.

"Yes," the bleak answer stopped the DI's fury before it truly took hold, "It will spread and become more dangerous the longer it's left. It may even spread to other cities along the ley lines of England."

"Who would do such a thing?" Geoff looked aghast and Sherlock frowned. John had not been very forthcoming with names – which meant he either didn't know or was reluctant to tell them. The first outcome was unlikely, the second almost a certainty.

"The three main instigators are people you don't know," John sighed, "But the Librarian of London has given them some support."

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	4. Chapter 4

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After John's bombshell, Sherlock insisted that the doctor needed to rest. He had a point – John was pale and listless as a result of his fetching Geoff and Sherlock down to his tunnel. The idea of Sherlock insisting that a loved one take a nap when there was work afoot was such an oddity that Geoff and John had given in after a quick shared glance.

It was proof of how beneficial John's presence had been to the eccentric genius. Sherlock rarely considered the needs of his own body – under John's influence the genius was becoming considerate of others.

Geoff was glad for the break himself. He needed a moment or two alone to sort out his own thoughts and so he'd wandered off along the tunnel, taking Pet and a candle for company

The idea that someone from the Yard was party to betraying John was not a pleasant one. Firstly because John was a valuable asset to the Yard – he gave medical assistance to the officers and plains clothes much more quickly and efficiently than the overworked NHS could, he was a good pair of eyes and a steady presence at your back in a fight and he could outdrink Gregson, which was no mean feat. Secondly, John Watson made Sherlock Holmes … better. Holmes thought better, communicated better and lived better with John around. Geoff had long since given up the thought that Sherlock would one day be found dead of an overdose, or caught in the middle of a heinous crime – now that he had found John, the man had gone from practically unstoppable to a force majeure.

And not in an obnoxious 'I want to kill him' way either. Sherlock was still abrasive, rude and difficult to deal with, but on the whole John's influence had changed him for the better.

Pet growled and blocked Geoff from moving further along the tunnel. It brought him out of his thoughts rather abruptly and he stopped obediently, lifting the candle he was carrying to get a better look at his surroundings. The tunnel floor five meters ahead had begun to slope upwards at a gentle gradient.

"You're right at the edge of the water," Sherlock's voice echoed from behind him. Geoff nodded and stepped back a bit more, turning to face the consulting genius. Sherlock's dramatic bone structure was even more evident in the wavering candlelight, the expression on his face serious.

"I don't think you understand the depth of the betrayal from Dimmock that John is facing," Sherlock announced right off and Geoff sighed. He didn't want to have an argument with a man that could be described as 'highly strung' on a good day. No matter what definition you used, for Sherlock today was not a good day.

"Sherlock, if the Librarian of London is doing some research, that hardly implicates Dimmock as well," Geoff said quietly. Sherlock shook his head and made a gesture with one hand – the other being occupied with holding the candle so that wax didn't drip on those long musicians fingers.

"It's different in their world," Sherlock insisted, "When two practitioners join their souls together – which is what witches and wizards call marriage, Geoff – then the actions of one are the actions of the other. They are literally considered to be a single entity. The community does not recognise divorce and the Joining is a very serious undertaking. It's forever, until death and afterwards as well."

If Geoff didn't know better he'd think Sherlock was jealous. There was a distinct current of longing in the baritone voice. Sherlock was possessive and protective of John to a degree that Geoff had never seen in the other man before and the Joining sounded like just what he craved with his partner.

"So in the eyes of the community you and John are one person?" Geoff asked and was rewarded with a scowl so fierce he stepped back in shock and Pet growled a warning.

"No," the words were almost too soft to hear, "I'm mundane – a marriage between a practitioner and a mundane is just a marriage. The practitioner can divorce the mundane without any repercussions from the community or to their practice. I shouldn't even know about the community, most Mundane's who marry into it don't."

"Which is yet another reason for some members of the community to go against John," Geoff muttered, "He's extremely powerful, he loves you and he wants to share his world with you as much as possible."

"Yes," Sherlock breathed a frustrated sigh, running his free hand through unruly locks, "There are entire seconds when I wonder if he would be better off without me."

Geoff snorted. John Watson would give up on Sherlock Holmes the day the sun collapsed and not a second before. Only Sherlock had the power to turn John away from him and the one time he had it had been such a ghastly shock to the genius' system that he'd had John back at his side before the night was over. They _still_ hadn't resolved the fallout of that misstep and it was months ago.

"I think you know that the answer to that question is no, Sherlock," Geoff said firmly, "From one married man to another: don't insult John by suggesting he'd be better off without you."

"I won't," Sherlock agreed, which was such a shock to the system that Lestrade wondered if the world was coming to the end of days or something. Sherlock gave him that 'you're being ridiculously slow' look that the entire Yard loathed with a vengeance and Geoff changed hands on the candle, giving his sore arm a careful stretch.

"I take it that John was asleep when you left him?" Geoff changed the subject.

"Yes," Sherlock sighed, "Although I don't think it was bringing us here that tired him out – he had to do a fair bit of casting at the hospital I think."

"We need to know what is going on in the world above us," Geoff frowned, "I get that the running water is shielding us somehow, but would it hurt if we tried for a signal on our phones?"

"My brother might be able to trace us, if we got a signal, but I don't believe that would do significant harm," Sherlock frowned, "It might be better to leave yours off, Lestrade. We don't want the Yard trying to get down here to rescue you or something."

Fair point – if Dimmock really thought that John posed a threat there was no telling what the younger DI had told their colleagues at the Yard. Geoff nodded and took the candle Sherlock thrust at him, holding it obligingly while Sherlock turned his phone on and waited through the usual start up screens and twinkling music. He spun around on the spot, almost knocking into the candles and Geoff pulled back carefully, knowing better than to chastise the intent man in front of him. Sherlock wouldn't understand and would therefore be impatient with warnings to be careful.

"Ha!" the exclamation heralded a frantic bout of typing and some fairly impatient foot tapping. Sudden stillness did not bode well for the news and it was all Geoff could do from using the hot wax as a distraction and snatching the phone.

"The riot has spread to a protest and inflamed them," Sherlock said quietly, "The protestors were gathering about that young man shot by police… the violence has spread to the streets… also, there are reports that two of Scotland Yard's members, a DI and a consultant, have been kidnapped and are being held against their will in the City."

Geoff swore, roundly and at length. Bad enough that the force had been in trouble for the death of that young man, without the crowd of protestors, who'd been peaceful if irate also creating trouble. It wasn't their fault; it was the inflamed ley lines, but still…

The news about his supposed abduction wasn't welcome either. His family would be worried for starters and he was going to have a hard time explaining things as it was…

"Maybe we can use this to our advantage," Geoff muttered, "At least if the Chief Inspector thinks I was kidnapped, along with you and John, I might keep my job at the end of all this."

"You cannot contact your wife," Sherlock replied coolly, brushing Geoff's job aside with his usual lack of concern, "You'll invalidate your alibi if you do so."

Geoff hadn't thought of that. While he didn't want to cause more stress or fear for his family than necessary, there was no way he could explain the magical community that existed beside their own, let alone explain the trouble it had gotten him into recently. Geoff sighed and put the thought aside. His missus had always understood that the job would sometimes swallow him up, taking him away from his family. He could only hope that she'd be so pleased to get him back that she'd overlook his absence this time.

"We should turn that off and get back to John," Geoff muttered, nodding at the phone in Sherlock's hand, "There must be a way we can get this sorted quickly enough to stop further damage."

Sherlock scowled but didn't argue – Geoff hoped that meant they hadn't wasted their miracle of the day – his thumb moving to stab at the power button. Before it could connect, the screen lit up and a tinny, annoying ringtone sounded in the tunnel. Geoff felt his eyes bugging out.

"Is that Umbrella by Rhiannon?" he blurted. Sherlock blushed faintly, his thumb hovering over the accept prompt before stabbing down. He didn't meet Geoff's eyes as he raised the phone to his ear.

"Mycroft," the greeting was short, clipped. Geoff shook his head and Pet sniggered beside him. Geoff had, on occasion when it was just the two of them in the car or late at night in the Yard, called Mycroft 'the Umbrella man' and Pet had of course spent some time stealing that umbrella in an effort to make Mycroft apologise for a slight against Geoff. It seemed that Sherlock had been thinking along similar lines.

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	5. Chapter 5

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Sherlock didn't think Mycroft would truly be much use, but as his brother was currently above ground and had full access to the emergency response teams, CCTV and various intelligence networks he thought it was worth giving Mycroft a chance.

"Mycroft," the response was marginally more polite than usual, but John was always saying that 'you caught more flies with honey', which was a long winded way of saying people did things for you when you were nice to them. Sherlock had yet to gather enough proof to substantiate the ratio of nice to nice, but for John he was willing to try.

"Where are you, brother?" Mycroft's voice dripped into his ear and Sherlock paused. A stranger would not have noticed it, perhaps even his assistant wouldn't, but there was an undercurrent of genuine worry in Mycroft's voice. Not the usual 'bored with it but duty bound to care' tone, either. This was true concern; something Sherlock had only heard a handful of times in his entire life.

"Safe," Sherlock said the word shortly, aware that Mycroft had people analysing the call and were probably trying to pinpoint his position as they spoke, "What is going on? I heard news of a riot?"

"Sherlock, I understand that you dislike it when I meddle in your affairs," Mycroft began and Sherlock scowled fiercely, waiting for the insult, the order to do as he was told. He hated it when Mycroft played the 'it's for your own good card', "And I understand that you feel safe in Dr Watson's company. However, it would be for the best if you were to seek shelter with me, or at the very least, away from him."

Sherlock hung up. There was no point in trying to get information out of Mycroft; he was just stalling while his teams tried to locate Sherlock. It wouldn't do to lead Mundane's straight to John's hiding place – they would not be able to detect the presence of magic users on their tails. Sherlock had recognised quite a lot of the things in the tunnel where John now slept – they had once resided in the box room in 221B. John could not afford to lose his equipment or ingredients, especially not now when they needed them the most.

He turned the phone off and popped the battery out for good measure, bundling it into one pocket and his phone into another. Lestrade followed suit wordlessly, sighing when it was done.

"No good, huh?" there was commiseration in the tone, but nothing that Sherlock could really take offence at. Geoff meant well, in his own way.

"He wants me away from John," Sherlock scowled. Lestrade nodded and looked around once more before turning back the way they'd come. The DI knew better than to comment on something that was flat out impossible. Sherlock was not leaving John until his name was cleared.

"We need to come up with a plan," the DI stated, "Dimmock's situation aside, we don't know enough to make a move yet. I know John needs his rest, but we can't hide down here all day."

Sherlock nodded reluctantly. He would prefer to give John a good ten hours of sleep before asking him for more information, but if there were truly riots going on above their heads due to magical interference, then sleep would have to wait. In fact, if he knew John at all, the Mage would not want…

Sherlock took off. He'd been so blind! John had brought them down here for their own safety, but when it came to magic, the Mage preferred to keep them out of the dangerous bits. Lestrade gave a startled shout, but the echoes in the tunnel showed he was running too, even if he hadn't deduced why. Light glowed ahead and Sherlock set his jaw. If John had truly brought them down here and then left Sherlock would be Very Not Pleased.

"Alright, you two?" John's voice greeted them as Sherlock slid to a halt in the way station, "What happened?"

"Sherlock took off like a monkey out of a box," Lestrade replied, "A thought bit him."

John chuckled and put the book in his hand aside, coming over to rub a hand through Sherlock's curls.

"I wouldn't leave you down here, Sherlock, the exits are all controlled by magic," John informed him, "Besides, the last time I left you behind it didn't end well for us."

Sherlock had the grace to feel abashed, but also pleased that John had deduced his thought. John grinned at him, the hour long nap obviously enough to replenish his energy once more.

"Now you two, we need to get organised," John's voice became a lot more serious, "In order to correct the damage done to the ley lines we're going to have to 'salt' London with countercharms before the final cleaning spell can be cast."

"Salt?" Sherlock puzzled. He'd gotten into some of John's books on a regular basis, including one that gave the properties of the most common spell ingredients, "I didn't think the properties of salt…"

"He doesn't mean it literally Sherlock," Lestrade broke in, sounding amused, "He means to place certain objects around the city to act as focal points for his spell."

"How the hell do you know that?" Sherlock was dumbfounded. Lestrade rolled his eyes. John seemed pleased, for some reason.

"I can read too, you know," he replied, "John let me borrow a book every now and then."

"And therein lies the problem. You two have knowledge of your own, beyond what any non-practitioner would be able to access, let alone understand," John sighed, "I did it because it seemed dangerous to keep you in the dark."

"And the community thinks opposite," Lestrade replied. Sherlock scowled again – how frustratingly banal of them all.

"So, first of all, I'm going to have to finish assembling the focal points," John got them back on track, "Then I'll put some protection on the two of you. Once you're protected I'll need you to do the actual placing, and I'm sorry about that, but I'll be pretty tired and I need to recoup my energy for the final spell."

"We can manage," Sherlock informed his Mage, not liking the implication that he couldn't follow simple instructions when the need arose. John rolled his eyes and tutted in the tone which meant Sherlock was being dense about something. It was familiar and comforting and annoying all at once, because it meant Sherlock was wrong but John still loved him for it.

"I don't like sending you into danger," John replied simply, which must have been his point all along, not that Sherlock couldn't follow instructions. He could – he just often didn't bother, "It _will _be dangerous up there – the atmosphere will have gotten worse, not to mention the members of the community who'll be trying to stop you and Mycroft will probably be on the lookout as well."

"It can't be helped," Lestrade shrugged, "We'll take all the precautions we can."

Sherlock almost really liked Lestrade for that effort at reassuring John.

"Yes we will," John agreed grimly. He turned away, picking up his book again. Sherlock could almost see John Watson step back, to be replaced by the Mage of London.

"I'll need the clay pots form the green trunk over there, all five of them, Geoff. Sherlock, fetch out my crucible from the medicine chest," the Mage started to clear a space to work in and Sherlock moved to do as he was bid. Finally, after what felt like forever, he was going to be able to watch as John cast his spells.

If the situation hadn't been so dire, Sherlock would have beamed in anticipation.

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	6. Chapter 6

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Lestrade eased the door open – and really how anti-climactic was that, to weave through a carefully constructed series of magical barricades and end it all by simply opening a door leading out of the cleaners cupboard – and glanced both ways before slipping into the corridor, Sherlock close on his heels.

He'd never seen a proper spell cast before, not right up close and personal at least, and it had to be said that it was rather… thrilling. Sherlock had been completely captivated of course and Geoff had spent almost as much time watching the thin genius as he had watching John. There was something compelling about the childlike curiosity and wonder that Sherlock had shown while watching John at work. The fact that the man would allow himself to be so obviously interested while still in Geoff's presence had also been a compliment of sorts. Sherlock would have hidden that aspect of himself away if he hadn't been comfortable in Geoff's company – he'd known that Geoff would never mock or belittle him for it.

"We need to head to the first point," Sherlock instructed from behind Geoff's left shoulder. They each carried two of the five pots – the fifth was still in John's custody. The Mage had informed them that the last pot could not be placed just yet. Geoff wasn't sure why and Sherlock hadn't asked; there had been something slightly forbidding in John's face, but that had never stopped Holmes before. It seemed the thin pest was learning that there was a time and place for everything.

"I know," Geoff replied and they picked up their pace, walking quickly out of the Tube station and into London. There was a definite air of unease about the streets as they walked. People were moving in small groups, huddled together or alone but quickly. There was no dawdling or window shopping going on.

"It's spreading," Sherlock muttered and Geoff nodded. He could _feel_ the wrongness in the air like humidity pressing against his skin with cloying fingers.

It made him twitch and _that_ made him worry. If he was feeling this bad, how was Claire feeling, and Paul and Alice? She was a strong woman, Claire Lestrade, but how would she cope with a danger she could only feel and not see?

"For heaven's sake, Lestrade, here!" Sherlock muttered and thrust a phone at him. It wasn't Sherlock's, or John's or Geoff's. Lovely: he'd be using a stolen phone to call his family, but right now Geoff would use a crystal ball or a tin can on a string if it meant he could check up on his loved ones.

He punched in his home number quickly and it was answered on the second ring by the missus. He didn't bother questioning why Sherlock felt it was safe to call now and not seven hours ago – his mother had taught him not to look gift horses in the mouth.

"Hello love," Geoff spoke quickly, confident that Claire would understand from his tone that their time was short, "I've borrowed someone's phone. Are you and the kids ok?"

"Yes, we are," Claire's voice was quiet and urgent, "Are you alright?"

"Fine," Geoff willed her to believe him, "But I won't be home for the duration. Stay inside with the kids, yeah? Give them my love, I'll be back soon."

"We love you too, be _careful_ Inspector," Claire replied and there was warmth in her voice reserved only for him. The line cut out and he grinned, hanging up himself. Too short a call to be traced and she was too quiet to be overheard.

"Someone was there," Sherlock deduces and Geoff gave him a nod, passing the phone back. He watched as Sherlock dropped the phone into the open bag of a teenager on her way past, talking loudly on her own phone.

"Let's get a move on," Geoff squared his shoulders, "The quicker we get this done, the quicker we can get back to John."

"And the sooner you can return to your family," there is a hint of judgement in Sherlock's voice and Geoff shot him a quelling look. To date, it hasn't had the slightest effect on the consulting pest, but it made Geoff feel better to know that he wasn't just taking Sherlock's jibes and airs without at least making some form of protest.

"Can you blame me for wanting to be with them with the city in uproar?" Geoff replied.

"Do you blame John for the uproar?" Sherlock shot back and Geoff was astonished to realise that this was Sherlock Holmes being protective of someone. It was oddly endearing, mostly because the man was so awkward about it.

"Don't be dim, Sherlock," Geoff relished being able to aim _that_ at the genius scowling at him, "Of course I don't. I wouldn't trade my friendship with you two, or the working relationship we have together for the illusion of safety that ignorance would bring me. I'm better knowing what I know than working in the dark – I get enough of that from mundane cases with you."

Sherlock looked rather like someone had stuffed a sock in his mouth – shocked and not pleased at the aftertaste – which Geoff counted as a win. They had been walking as they talked, pausing here and there to drop their pots off, doing it casually so no one would pay attention or interfere with them. Sherlock had the last pot in his hand as they waited to cross the street and Geoff had to lunge to catch it when someone knocked into the thin man from behind, the pot flying loose.

There was a scuffle and some swearing. Sherlock shouted as Geoff tucked the pot inside his coat securely and turned to see what was going on.

"No! Mycroft!" Sherlock yelled, struggling with two suited men who looked as if they would be more comfortable lifting weights than dressing sharply and kidnapping skinny blokes off the street.

For a horrible moment, Geoff hesitated. Sherlock needed help, but if he was being kidnapped by his brother then he was at least safe for now. If Geoff intervened and was kidnapped too, or if he intervened and the pot was broken, then they would not be able to cleanse the ley lines and London would be in even more danger.

Sherlock was wearing the wards that John had bestowed on him, written in permanent marker under the man's clothes and sealed with a concoction of John's making. He'd be safe for now. Geoff threw him an apologetic look and ran, weaving through the crowd of people that were gathering in response to the fuss that Sherlock was kicking up. As he ran, three more men appeared as if from nowhere. One made a half-hearted grab for him, but their focus was on Sherlock and the men that were still struggling with him, so Geoff got away fairly easily.

He didn't stop running for a long while. He hated himself for abandoning Sherlock like that, but he couldn't see any other choice.

Geoff just hoped that John would forgive him.

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	7. Chapter 7

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Sherlock looked up as Lestrade was shoved into the small room, barely more than a cupboard really, where he'd been put. The handcuffs around his wrists had refused to yield, so far, to the lock pick he kept stowed in his cuff so Sherlock sat still and waited until his fellow prisoner regained his balance and the door slammed shut once more. Sherlock had lost track of the time in his prison, having lost consciousness at some point of his abduction, so he had no idea if Lestrade had stayed free long enough to plant the last pot of magic or not.

"Not Mycroft, then," Lestrade said in the dim light and Sherlock grunted, returning to his task. He had been calling for his brothers assistance, not protesting his brother's high handed ways, but there was no way he'd admit that to the DI.

The only light they had was what seeped under the ill-fitting door, so Sherlock closed his eyes and worked by touch. He'd almost had it when the door had opened minutes ago, he was sure.

"You know, today has been a bit rubbish, all things considered," Lestrade mused beside him, "What with one thing and another, I think I'd rather be at home with the missus."

Sherlock grunted again, as some kind of response seemed to be called for. At least Lestrade had the sense not to confirm or deny their task, nor ask if Sherlock was able to get out of the cuffs. Neither of them fully could read the rune glowing faintly on the back of the door, but the likelihood was that it was reporting their words to its creator.

"A cup of tea wouldn't go amiss either," Lestrade continued just as the handcuffs snicked open quietly, the comment concealing the small noise.

"Tea would be welcome," Sherlock agreed, making short work of the second cuff and grasping Lestrade's wrist, "As would some of those biscuits."

"Mmm," Lestrade agreed, "Ah well, it can't be helped I suppose."

Both men were free now, the cuffs disappearing soundlessly into Sherlock's pocket for later use. Lestrade stretched slightly and Sherlock followed suit – he'd stiffened up in the last few hours.

"Did you at least see where we are before you were taken?" Sherlock asked. This information was important, but also a question that their captors would be expecting them to exchange. As much as Sherlock hated to do something that may be considered 'ordinary' he didn't credit their kidnappers with enough intelligence to to recognise that.

"We're in the basement of St Paul's," Lestrade replied, "The part that was closed recently for renovations. There are construction signs and canvas drapes everywhere out there."

Sherlock nodded. John had been intending to do the ritual quite close to St Pauls. The church had once held the meridian for England – all maps had oriented themselves according the the position of the Cathedral dome. Of course, in Rome the meridian had been elsewhere, but the point was that the Mundane's who had drawn the maps had been reacting to the ley line that the Cathedral dome marked. John had once told Sherlock that it was one of the most powerful ley lines in England – a sort of master line which governed the others.

It would make sense, then, that this was the ley line that John would use to restore the lines that had been tampered with.

Before Sherlock could devise a way of communicating with Lestrade that would not be picked up by the watching Rune, footsteps sounded again outside their little enclosure. Without having to discuss it, both men moved to opposite sides of the cupboard space, the better to take on any of their captors.

Shouting rang through the wood, the words muffled and indistinct in the way the told Sherlock magic was being cast. Things got quite mixed, by the sound of it, two different parties battling to get into the cupboard. Sherlock slid across to Lestrade's side and put his lips to the other man's ear. It was a mark of how much the DI trusted him that the other man didn't do more than stiffen in response. Sherlock pressed one of the sets of handcuffs into Greg's hand, pushing until he felt the other man's fingers close over them in acceptance.

"Two opposing parties. We may have allies outside," Sherlock breathed. He didn't have time for more as the noise quietened suddenly. Greg nodded once and shoved Sherlock back against the other wall, into the sheltered corner there. Of the two of them, Greg was the one in the direct line of sight as the door started to open, something that Sherlock hadn't realised until that moment. He glared at the DI indignantly – he didn't need to be protected – but knew better than to verbalise his disapproval of being out manoeuvred at this time.

In the dim light he could see that Lestrade had turned the cuffs into a rudimentary set of knuckle dusters, which would likely be ineffective against magic, but would deliver a nasty blow against the unsuspecting.

"Sir?" the voice was immediately familiar, but not comforting, "It's DS Dimmock. I'm going to open your door."

"Why?" Lestrade barked back, which was not as stupid a question as you'd think.

"We're trying to overcome the damage done to the ley lines, sir," Dimmock called, "We've made a terrible mistake."

Nothing like an attack of the blindingly obvious at the eleventh hour to sort out what side you were on, Sherlock mused caustically. Lestrade shot him a look and Sherlock tilted his head. It would be best not to attack immediately until they were sure of Dimmock's allegiances. In the meantime at least they'd be out of the glorified cupboard. Lestrade nodded and pressed himself against the wall.

"Let us out, then," Sherlock's fellow prisoner called and the door shuddered for a moment. The Rune sputtered and went out and then light was flooding their impromptu prison. Sherlock blinked rapidly to force his eyes to accustom to the light and glared at Dimmock as he followed Lestrade out.

Dimmock looked a little overwhelmed. He was smudged with soot and dust and his clothes were more than slightly dishevelled. In the distance there were still random pockets of unintelligible noise, which indicated that whoever was fighting their captors off hadn't completely succeeded as yet.

"I'm sorry," the DS blurted, "We didn't realise what was really going on until Margery from Clapham cast the bones. She's a sort of Seer…"

"Dimmock, shut up," Lestrade's voice was impatient and tired, "We need to get out of here. Go help your comrades…"

"Sorry, sir, I can't. There's no guarantee that you'd make it out safely," Dimmock interrupted sheepishly, "I'll need to escort you through the traps. There's a lot of Runes…"

Sherlock made an impatient noise. As if that wasn't evident, even in the brighter light of the corridor.

"The Mage of London has given us a filter spell," Sherlock informed Dimmock loftily, "He wouldn't send us out undefended."

Dimmock flinched and nodded but followed them anyway along the corridor. Sherlock began to calculate how best to get rid of the other man so that they could meet up with John. He didn't trust Dimmock at all, which did not bode well for any future consultations with the DS for the Yard.

Sherlock hurried through the lower levels, moving quickly towards the stairs. The Runes were flickering and fading, which meant that the caster was being magically restrained – Runes required a power source and if the caster was restrained under a suppression field then any Rune they had placed would fade out of existence quietly, or at least that was what John had said to Sherlock.

St Pauls was still closed, which meant it was either late at night or early morning, and Sherlock led the way to a set of discreet side doors which they could use to exit onto street level without drawing a lot of attention to themselves. London was loud for early morning, which meant that the riots were still ongoing, but the sky was beginning to lighten. The sun would rise soon, and Sherlock cursed.

"Piss off Dimmock," he snapped, wheeling around suddenly to face John's betrayer, his voice and face showing clearly what he thought of the startled practitioner, "We don't need you…"

There was a quiet snick as Lestrade fastened the handcuffs over Dimmock's wrist and the nearest railing, Sherlock's diatribe successfully distracting the DS from his senior officer's actions. Dimmock protested, but neither man paid attention to his shouts, running quickly across the road and disappearing towards Fleet Street.

When Sherlock was sure that they were out of sight he cut back towards the Thames and the Millennium Bridge that spanned it. John had planned to come out of the network of tunnels under the city near the Tate Modern and Sherlock intended to meet him there.

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	8. Chapter 8

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Geoff was many things, but naïve wasn't one of them. The moment he'd realised the depth and colour of the trouble they were in, he'd been unable to see a way out that ended in a win. Sherlock had a sort of blind faith in John, a simple and pure faith the likes of which would put the Pope to shame, but Geoff…

Did he trust the Mage of London? Yes, with his life and that of his family. Yes, with the sanity and care of Sherlock Holmes. Yes, with the safety of the general public. But here was the difference. He didn't trust the Mage of London with himself.

John would – and had in the past – go to extraordinary lengths to protect those around him. John's personal safety was not a priority, which meant that in some ways, John had nothing to lose. A man that commanded immense power and had nothing to lose was frightening to those that stood in his way. It was almost inevitable that the practitioners of London would take some sort of action against John; it was unfortunate that those who incited the action did so to enhance their own power.

Had they gone against John because the Mage was a threat to innocents, ridiculous as the idea was, John would have taken care to limit the damages and explain why they were wrong. Because they had gone against John to enhance their own power, the Mage of London would fight tooth and nail against them – to protect the mundane's caught in the cross fire and to protect the practitioners fooled into supporting the cause. Their opposition never stood a chance, but Geoff wasn't concerned with them. John would do _everything in his power_ to foil their plans. He'd fight to the death if need be.

Geoff wondered if their opposition was counting on this fact.

"Lestrade, you're thinking," Sherlock's voice cut into his musing, "Stop it before you give away our position."

The thin pest had been under some pressure lately, what with his row with John all those months ago and more recently being abducted, so Geoff bit back any snide remark that he could have made. They were nearing the Millennium Bridge again, which was where John planned to do whatever he was planning to do. Geoff wondered what Sherlock thought he was doing, drawing attention to the last stage of the plan. Since he wasn't a consulting genius with the appalling habit of deducing your every thought from the twitch of an eyebrow, Geoff caught hold of a thin arm, pausing their progress.

"Sherlock, wouldn't it be better to cross at Blackfriars Bridge, or Southwark?" Geoff muttered, "If we're caught crossing…"

"No time," Sherlock replied, "I wanted to meet him before he crossed the bridge, but he'll be here in under a minute. The best we can do is run interference for him."

Geoff sighed and let go, allowing Sherlock to lead them on again. John had drawn many protective runes on their backs, chest and upper arm with a sharpie before they left, which would offer them protection to a point.

Thunder rumbled overhead, ominous dark clouds amassing in the sky above the river and surrounding buildings. Geoff spared a look at the weather and hoped that they got under cover before the storm broke. He didn't fancy trying to wrap things up drenched to the bone.

Something flashed in the corner of his eye and Geoff threw himself forward, knocking Sherlock down as the spell flew over them to impact with the wall. They were rolling into cover before a second spell flew and then Dimmock's voice was shouting and something flew over their heads to hit their attacker.

A body slumped to the ground with nary a groan, though Geoff could see that whoever it was still breathed.

"Dammit, I'm trying to help!" Dimmock cursed from the end of the alley, "Would you stop locking me up and running away before you get yourselves _killed!_"

Sherlock opened his mouth, but before whatever vitriol he had in mind could be given voice there was a bright flash, followed by a bone shaking peal of thunder that sounded terribly like John Watson.

Dimmock blanched a sure sign that something was terribly wrong. Usually the DS was unflappable, completely cool in the face of violence, mayhem and entrails. For Dimmock to react so violently, by comparison, to the mere sound of John's voice…

Sherlock took to his heels, followed closely by Geoff. Dimmock was only scant steps behind, but that didn't matter as Sherlock slammed to a stop so suddenly that Geoff bounced off him into Dimmock, knocking all three of them to the ground. Sherlock didn't even spare the time to curse at him, twisting like an eel to get clear of the tangle of arms and legs, eventually making it to his knees, his eyes riveted on the figure now standing in the middle of the Millennium Bridge.

John was standing still, dead in the centre, his arms at his sides and his palms facing forward. As Geoff watched, the clouds above them swirled and lowered, purple-white lightening flickering over the heavy bases like a spider web of cracks. John's mouth was moving, the words he uttered carried away in the wind before they could reach the ears of those on the riverbanks.

Pressure and power crawled over Geoff's skin, prickling uncomfortably. It didn't stop him from reaching out and keeping Sherlock where he was, the wind so fierce now that to stand up would have meant being slammed off your feet and into the next immovable object. John's genius was thin as a rake on a good day and Geoff didn't want to contemplate the sail area of that ridiculous coat catching a wayward wind and blowing the genius away.

He's not sure who is more surprised – himself or Sherlock – when Sherlock returns the grip fiercely.

John raises his arms slowly, his words never pausing, the lightning and thunder beginning to reach a deafening crescendo. John is at the eye of the storm now, untouched by the howling wind, bright energy or the spray from the river below as it froths itself into a frenzy.

Over and over the lightning crackles over the clouds, but each time it's like a short circuit occurs somewhere and the display aborts. John's face is implacable as he repeats his spell over and over, each time getting further into it before the spell falls apart and he has to begin again.

"He's trying to cleanse the ley lines!" Dimmock shouts from somewhere behind them, "But they're too badly damaged! The spell isn't taking properly and the power behind it is building to an over load – it's more than even the Mage can handle. If the spell back lashes on us it will destroy everything in a square mile!"

"Then help him!" Sherlock barks the order as if he expects to be obeyed and Dimmock actually moves forward a little, coming up level with them in response before stopping again and wringing his hands. He is pale and Geoff is fairly certain that the shaking in Dimmock's hands has nothing to do with the wind that is buffeting them and everything to do with the practitioners fear.

"I'm not strong enough!" Dimmock's voice is despairing, "None of us are! What have we done?"

Geoff snarls at the man in frustration, his patience entirely gone. Sherlock is quivering beside him, clearly wanting to go to John but knowing better than to distract the man at this critical stage. The noise becomes deafening, as rain streams from the clouds, lashing down at the world below in huge stinging drops. Geoff can feel the urge to move forward now and together he and Sherlock edge closer to the bridge, using what little shelter they can find in the balustrades that lead to the edge.

Just as the chaos was becoming an unbearable assault on the mind and senses, John turned his head to look at them and everything _stopped._

The wind cut off as if it had never existed, though airborne objects and windborne spray froze where they were. The rain halted in mid-air. Lightning clung unnaturally to the bottom of the clouds.

"John!" Sherlock cried and the Mage of London smiled. His voice carried to them as if he was only inches away instead of feet.

"I'm sorry, my love. There's no other way out. Geoff, it's been a privilege to work with you."

"No! Whatever it is you're doing, stop it. There has to be some way we can help!" Geoff spluttered. Sherlock was still as death, Geoff could almost feel the genius mind race, looking for a way to stop whatever was about to happen next.

"You're here," John said it gently, "That _does_ help. Whatever happens next, Sherlock, it's alright."

"John," Sherlock breathed, "I love you."

That was almost the most shocking thing that Geoff had heard all day. He knew they loved each other – but he'd never heard either one say it aloud.

John smiled in response and took a deep breath, before tipping his head back and shouting a final, indistinct word at the sky.

For a moment it felt as if the world exploded as everything rushed back into movement. The rain sucked itself into a spinning funnel, centred on the bridge where John stood and then…

John set fire to the rain.

A single column of spinning rain above him burned fiercely with purifying flame as the lightning scattered one final time, this time connecting with the many branches and off shoots in a dazzling display of pyrotechnics. The thunder sounded once more – John's voice amplified to an impossibly triumphant crescendo as he reached out with everything he had and undid the harm that had been done. Geoff could feel it happen – the thread of wrongness, that little niggle of irritation that, if left unchecked, would develop into the urge to smash and destroy so quickly just _snapped_. The people in their city and in other cities across the nation had felt this niggle, had given in to their anger and discontent and turned it outward, resulting in the riots that had 'gone viral' so quickly and mindlessly.

"It's a Mage Blessing!" Dimmock cried from beside them, "He's burning every particle of magic he has!"

"No," Sherlock breathed, but it was too late. John, powerful, caring, responsible idiot that he was had done exactly what Geoff had feared most.

He'd given up everything he had to protect the innocent and set right a wrong.

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AN – I KNOW!

Heh – Epilogue to come

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	9. Chapter 9

%&%&%

Minutes after…

Dimmock had been unable to hold them back.

They'd run to their Mage even before the last drops of fire had splashed into the Thames, extinguishing themselves with nary a sound. The sky above them was clear once more – in fact there was absolutely no sign at all that only moments ago they had been in the midst of a maelstrom of energy that had threatened to rip the city apart.

John wasn't breathing.

Sherlock, for all his genius and knowledge of anatomy, was useless in the face of panic and despair and simply moaned, petting John's hair as if the touch would somehow kickstart the smaller man into breathing again.

It was Geoff who bent double on the cold, wet bridge and breathed for the Mage, forcing air into still lungs for two endless minutes before John gasped and choked, coughing back into life under his hands.

%&%&%

Hours after…

The machines were annoying. They beeped and flashed and got in the way. Had Sherlock not been told by mulitple medical professionals, his brother and finally Geoff that John needed the machines right now, he'd have disconnected every single one of them and shoved them out of the private room that John lay in.

Dimmock had promised retribution against those that had brought about John's demise as a Mage; confirming their fears that John had burned his magic out completely. Sherlock had no faith in the practitioners left in London and their ability to police themselves. The man that had _tried_ to police them was a shell of his former self, having burned through more than his Magic in an effort to set things right once more.

Geoff had stayed long enough to see John and Sherlock settled into the room and then had gone home, promising a swift return. Sherlock understood why the DI was gone and was thankful for it in a way. It meant that he had time with John to himself for a while. He'd learned not to resent sharing John with Lestrade – with Geoff. Geoff was Good and John liked him – Sherlock liked making John happy, so that meant sharing him with Geoff from time to time.

Once he was sure that they wouldn't be interrupted, Sherlock gathered a thin hand in his own and sunk his spare hand in John's blond hair, running his fingers over his partners scalp gently. He leaned down to place his lips beside John's ear, kissing the cold flesh first.

"I don't care what you are now, John as long as you remember this. You are mine and I do not give you permission to go." Sherlock breathed.

It was a statement that he would repeat thousands of times more in the days to come.

%&%&%

Days after…

Geoff had taken to bringing food to Sherlock in an effort to keep the man from collapsing from sheer exhaustion. The only good thing about the room that John was in was that there was an ensuite. Sherlock had been surprised and then grateful that Geoff simply brought changes of clothes and toiletries with him so Sherlock could freshen up properly. John wouldn't like it if Sherlock neglected himself and Geoff was canny enough to know that the thin pest would throw the mother of all tantrums – and Geoff from the room – if he tried to get Sherlock to return to Baker Street for even a short amount of time.

Not that Geoff needed to be a deducing genius to figure that out. He'd seen Sherlock do it to Molly, some thin woman that texted constantly and an older bloke that looked a little like Sherlock in a vaguely disturbing way. Mrs Hudson had agreed to keep track of laundry and other such things and usually had something home made for Sherlock to eat whenever Geoff stopped by for more shirts and socks. She'd offered to come to the hospital but Sherlock had sent explicit instructions via text to stay away until he summoned her. Claire had made noises about coming to visit too, but Geoff had put her off for now; better to wait until John was awake and looking more like himself.

Sherlock was in the shower when Dimmock knocked on the door. Geoff crossed the room so quickly an onlooker would have thought he'd teleported and pushed Dimmock back with a hand, forcing him back across the threshold.

The DS was so startled he didn't even resist and Geoff scowled fiercely, folding his arms and blocking the doorway with his bulkier frame. Behind him the shower turned off. Sherlock would be out in two minutes exactly – Geoff had timed him – so the DI said nothing. Better not to cause Sherlock to scandalise the staff by appearing naked to berate Dimmock or cause the thin man to brain himself in the bathroom as he hurried to John's defence.

"What is _he_ doing here?" Sherlock hissed, sounding something like an enraged cat. He ended up pressed so close to Geoff that he was almost draped over him like an awkward blanket, positively radiating hostility at the practitioner before them.

"I… I came to tell John…" Dimmock started but never got a chance to finish.

"He's still unconscious," Geoff interrupted, not bothering to disguise the bitterness in his voice, "And we're not letting you anywhere near him, conscious or not. So either you tell us and we'll pass it on, or leave."

Sherlock nodded vigorously in agreement and Dimmock deflated a little.

"Alright," the other man said in quiet defeat, "The Mages who live in Britain have completed the trials of the practitioners who messed with the ley lines. Those who directly cast magic against them and John have been subjected to summary judgement…"

John had performed summary judgement on those two teenagers who'd tried to summon a water demon all those years ago; stripping them of their ability to perform magic as he bound the demon back in its watery prison. It had been Geoff's first case that had actually held real magic and John at the same time.

"Good," Geoff muttered, "With John down for the count, we don't need to be worrying that they'll turn up here looking for round two."

Not that they'd have gotten in. He hadn't just pushed Dimmock out of the room because Sherlock would slaughter him if he came near John. He and Sherlock had pretty good memories and an eye for details. They'd drawn up several protective runes over the door lintel and they'd started glowing when Dimmock tried to cross them. The runes were a sympathetic magic – they'd used blood from each other and a few drops from John in the mix of ink – which wasn't strong enough to actually repel someone serious about getting into the room, but would certainly slow them down long enough for Sherlock or Geoff to shoot them with John's gun.

"What about those that supported them – that gave them knowledge or help?" Sherlock's voice butted into Geoff's musings. Dimmock looked uncomfortable, which meant he and his missus hadn't gotten off scott-free.

"We're on a kind of… probation," Dimmock replied, "We're being watched very closely now and probably will be for the rest of our lives. Those of thus that held positions of trust in our society have been stripped of them."

Geoff wasn't so petty as to gloat over that, and neither was Sherlock when Geoff stood on his foot.

%&%&%

Weeks after…

Sherlock looks up as John stirs from his place on the couch and puts his pipette down carefully, trotting out to sit on the coffee table and rest one gentle hand lightly on John's chest. He's not sure if it's the complete loss of his magic or some other thing that has John tending towards panic when he wakes alone, but either way if he wants John to remain calm and coherent he needs to be in contact with his partner when he wakes.

"Mmph," John mutters and reaches up a hand to brush over Sherlock's before moving it and sitting up. He's lost too much weight again – one of the cretins in the hospital had the nerve to try and get him admitted into a special program for people with eating disorders – and he's yet to regain any colour. It's the tail end of winter though, and Sherlock plans that as soon as the sun starts to make regular appearances without being accompanied by a shocking amount of cold that he'll take John out into it.

He loves John no matter what he looks like, but he prefers it when John is healthy and _looks_ healthy.

John brushes a kiss on Sherlock's cheek and gets up. Sherlock watches as the thin doctor makes his way to the bathroom and contains a sigh. John is not to be sighed over or pitied. John is John and nothing can change that – magic or no.

The front door opens and Sherlock listens to the footsteps below. Lestrade, with dinner and the family. John had been home for only three days before Claire Lestrade had 'popped in' to see him. The Lestrade children also seemed fond of John and now it was a common practice for them to share one meal a week with the DI's family. Pet has been known to make an appearance at these dinners as well, brushing against Sherlock in greeting and farewell. Sherlock isn't sure if John has 'spoken' with Pet since the Blessing; he doesn't want to upset his partner by asking.

Lestrade had of course proven that he was more than capable of being professional on the job – Sherlock had taken a case for him only last week and not once had the other man's demeanour been anything other than its exasperated usual. John had been left in Mrs Hudson's excellent care for the two hours that Sherlock was absent from the flat.

"Good evening," Sherlock stood as Mrs Lestrade entered the room, mindful of his manners. He allowed her to kiss his cheek and take his hand, offering a perfunctory smile before bundling up John's blanket. Lestrade was in the kitchen, fishing out plates and glasses and cutlery, almost as familiar with the house as the tenants were.

"Stay out of the fridge!" Sherlock warned, not wanting to deal with traumatised children at dinner time. There were a few … questionable items in there that the Lestrade's would no doubt prefer their children not to see. Lestrade has bought libations suitable to the children and to adults and pours them out, sending the children to distribute cutlery and drinks as required.

John braves the fridge, clapping Lestrade on the shoulder and carrying Claire and Sherlock's food out to them, kissing Claire on the cheek and sitting down when ordered. There are enough seats for the adults, the children sit on the floor, and Sherlock turns the telly on, putting it at a low volume but allowing the children to be entertained while the adults discuss work and mutual interests.

Well, Claire, Lestrade and John do. Sherlock is not so domesticated that he'll sit through _small talk_.

%&%&%

Months after …

John paused by the side of the path, breathing heavily, and fished in the pocket of his track pants. His phone buzzed indignantly again as he fished and he sighed. The phone seemed to be extra indignant when Sherlock texted him, as if channelling his partners personality.

Either that or Sherlock had found a way to make it vibrate with extra verve when he texted.

John stepped further off the path, not wanting to get knocked into by a fellow runner and looked at the screen.

_Case – SH_

_Come to 221B at once – SH_

As John watched another text came in, this one making him smile.

_Are you free? We've got something for his nibs to look at and I think it would go better if you were home. Geoff._

John replied to them both and tucked the phone away again. Sherlock had taken many cases during John's convalescence, though mainly ones that could be solved from the comfort of Baker Street. John was under no illusions that the sleuth's reluctance to leave their home was due to the rating system. John had been very unsettled in the wake of his last spell and Sherlock had been bound and determined to prove to the doctor that as far as the genius was concerned, nothing had changed.

John loved that about Sherlock.

He loped through the park, taking the paths that would bring him more quickly to the exit at the end of Baker Street. He'd been running to improve his stamina and fitness for the last two months – increasing the distance and speed as time went by and gaining much needed colour in his cheeks. He was almost back to the fitness level he'd been in boot camp, which was a matter of pride.

Geoff's car was parked outside the flat, with Geoff leaning on the side of it, clearly waiting for John to arrive. He grinned as John jogged to an easy halt, opening the back door and pulling out a box.

"I see what you did there," John laughed, "Not so much, come and help me with Sherlock John, as come and help me carry things!"

"He'd kill me," Geoff snorted, "I have no intention of leaving Claire to raise my children alone, thank you very much Dr Watson. I didn't think it was kind to tease him with the box while he waited for you."

"Very wise," John opened the street door and held it for Geoff, knowing the DI would walk on up without any further invite from him. He trotted lightly up the stairs, listening as Sherlock berated Lestrade for waiting downstairs. Sherlock, of course, would never lower himself to actually going downstairs and getting the files himself.

The case was a murder, but Geoff said there was something 'off' and he wanted Sherlock's opinion. The crime scene reports all described a common or garden case of robbery gone wrong – the criminal in question had been surprised by the homeowner returning early from work and had hit her over the head with a paperweight. So far so obvious, as Sherlock said.

"Yeah, even I can manage that part of it," Lestrade shifted uneasily, "But I'm telling you Sherlock, something is not quite right…"

They fished out the crime scene photos and started flipping through them. John went and made tea for the three of them while Sherlock flipped back and forth between several shots of the body from different angles.

"There's a few more in here – we'd only just got them sent through. I printed them off and brought them along, but I haven't looked yet," Lestrade muttered as John put his tea on the table, "Thanks, John."

"Welcome," John nodded, and Sherlock shot him a glance, which was as effusive as the sleuth got when in the middle of dissecting a crime scene by photo. John perched on the arm of the couch closest to his partner and looked over the thin shoulder as Lestrade pulled the newest photos out and spread them on the table. Sherlock froze and Geoff choked the reason for the DI's unease immediately apparent.

"That's a rune," Geoff muttered, "Bloody hell; I didn't look into the space under the desk…"

"It's a power gathering rune," John sighed, and rolled his eyes at Sherlock's look of surprise, "I haven't lost my ability to read, Sherlock. The power gathering could be the reason for the death, which has been disguised as a break in gone wrong. I'm sorry, Geoff, I'd feel better if neither you nor Sherlock had anything to do with the case."

"You're not saying to give it to Dimmock!" Geoff protested.

"You'll raise his profile in the community again! John, surely we can…" Sherlock added his protest and John got up, frowning at them both and stuffing things back into the box.

"No, I'm not saying to give it to Dimmock," John answered Geoff firmly, "And no, Sherlock, we can't solve this one. It was different when I could protect you both actively. The final protections I put on you two will still be there – the Blessing has ensured that, and it will last the rest of your lives, as will the protections I put on Geoff's home and the flat. But I can't protect you against a practitioner that thinks nothing of murder to raise power, and I won't argue on it."

"If not Dimmock, then who?" Geoff spoke before Sherlock could get worked up.

"DI Patterson," John replied, "He transferred in a couple of months ago and made a point of introducing himself during one of my morning runs. He's relocated to London to take over the duties of Mage and to police the community. There are a large number of people who have been shamed and discredited at the moment in the area and he wanted to let me know he was keeping on top of things. Apparently, that was one of the decisions that the Mage council came to after the ley line tribunal was held. All you have to do is show him the rune and he'll come up with a reason to take over the case, Geoff."

"Alright, then," Geoff nodded, closing the lid on the now full box and draining his tea, "I'll go see him now."

John nodded peacefully and left the other two men to say their goodbyes, heading to the bathroom for a shower.

Later that night, Sherlock prodded John in the side and propped his pointy chin on John's breastbone.

"You don't mind?" the curly haired man asked, his tone uncertain. John didn't have to ask what he was talking about – Sherlock had been pensive ever since Geoff left earlier this afternoon. Even their lovemaking this evening had been affected by his mood.

"No, Sherlock, I don't mind. I don't want to go up against a practitioner unarmed," John sighed, "Do you mind? That I effectively took the case from you and handed it to someone else?"

"No," Sherlock frowned, "Although I don't like this Patterson coming near you without permission."

John grinned and tugged on curly hair. Sherlock rolled to the side and went to sleep – it was like the bloke had an off switch sometimes, though never one that acted in your favour – and John sighed into the darkened room.

%&%&%

Years after…

"Bollocks," Geoff aired his opinion firmly and Sherlock sighed. Not too deeply though, as they were pressed together quite tightly in the small space.

"Agreed," John's tone was resigned, "But it could be worse."

"How, precisely could it be worse? We're stuck in a tunnel with possibly no way out, no light, poor ventilation and no way to call for help. It's a dead spot for mobiles, remember?" Geoff snarked. Pet huffed in the darkness, but Sherlock assumed that the supernatural being wouldn't be able to lead them out of here – it was quite old for a Pet, according to John and Geoff had once mentioned some months ago that it was spending less and less time with him.

"We could be out there with a bunch of armed thugs who wouldn't think twice about killing us and burying our bodies in quick lime," John replied quite logically. Sherlock grunted in agreement and patted cautiously at the walls around them. The space was indeed a tunnel, built to allow electricians and other workers access to the fixings of the building while the tenants went on with daily life undisturbed.

If they hadn't been trapped in one under possibly murderous circumstances, Sherlock would have been fascinated. As it was, he'd prefer it if they knew which way was out.

He'd also quite like to see where he was going and what he was touching. Unfortunately the one object he had that could have cast some light had a flat battery.

"We need light," he muttered, "John, is your phone charged?"

"Yes," John replied, "But I have a better idea. Stay still a moment, you two."

"Uh, I wouldn't light any matches in here mate, there are gas pipes…" Geoff started but John muttered something that Sherlock didn't quite catch and there was light.

A blue white ball of it rested on the palm of John hand, which he tossed into the air after a moment to float just above their heads.

"Whsfsk," Sherlock may or may not have said in utter shock, staring at his partner. Geoff also seemed rather surprised by John's actions and the smaller man shrugged a little sheepishly, tucking his hands into his trouser pockets somewhat like a school boy caught out of bounds.

"It's coming back," John said after a moment and Sherlock scoffed.

"Obviously."

"Think of it like… roses," John glared at his partner, "As long as you don't destroy the roots it will grow back after a hard pruning. Everyone assumed I'd burnt through all of my magic. I hadn't – the roots of it were still intact."

"And you didn't say anything because you don't want another fiasco like the last one on your hands," Geoff nodded, "I don't blame you, really. If it were me, I wouldn't want to give anyone a chance to resurrect that prophecy."

Sherlock hadn't quite thought of it like that, but he could see from John's expression that Geoff had hit on the correct answer.

"This way," the sleuth said and turned his back on the other two, reaching back to take John's hand; pleased when his partner took it and squeezed gently. For a moment Sherlock had thought that John was hiding magic from him again, excluding him from that part of his life.

He should have known better, of course. John was better than that.

That didn't mean he wouldn't interrogate John to within an inch of his life to get every last detail out of him once this case was finished.

END

AN – that's all folks!


End file.
